


The Sight of Sound

by astridshepard



Category: Mass Effect - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, come get your hope here, fresh from the oven, heard y'all needed some HOPE, humanity fuck yeah, i got real emotional over italians singing during quarantine okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-15
Updated: 2020-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-12 23:28:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23153500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astridshepard/pseuds/astridshepard
Summary: The rituals of the living; the songs of survival.
Relationships: Female Shepard/Garrus Vakarian
Comments: 27
Kudos: 66





	The Sight of Sound

Two weeks after they’d returned to Earth, five months after no contact with the galactic community at large, eight months after the Crucible was activated, Garrus stopped to listen to the music outside of the hospital room he sat in.

It was too far away to be properly disruptive—medical staff all around the city were quite firm that loud sounds stay a reasonable distance away from those who were recovering—but with most structures in ruin, they still echoed across districts with wild abandon. Human music was as varied as its people, and he wondered if Shepard would know what they were singing.

That was how Tali found him, distantly gazing out the window, when she showed up with their second (and final) ration of the day. 

“Let’s go,” she said. Garrus turned to see the characteristic tilt of her head, the only warning he would receive about a decision she’d made to make him do something ‘for his own good.’ He tried to reach out and grab the MRE in her hand before she could put that plan into action. If he managed to get it open and start eating, _maybe_ he’d convince her that staying put while they ate was a good idea. 

She knew him too well, however, and shoved the rations behind her before his hand could leave the hospital bed it was sitting on top of.

“Where are we going?” he asked, his voice deliberately falling into the deeper ranges of suspicion. Just as characteristically, Tali didn’t respond, simply grabbed his arm and dragged him outside with a huff and a glare.

Which is how Garrus found himself in the middle of a half-destroyed square, surrounded on all sides by civilians and the military forces still stationed on Earth, fringe-deep in the noise he’d been mulling over earlier.

If you’d told him a few years ago that he’d be cowed by a quarian into leaving his human girlfriend’s bedside while she recovered from saving the entire galaxy from giant machines, he’d have told you to lay off the ryncol. As it was, the ryncol that remained was kept under strict watch by the krogan, but that didn’t stop them or anyone else from draining the stores of alcohol left over after the war. Inebriation didn’t help the noise level, or the humans’ coordination as they danced in the middle of the all the tents and ruined buildings. Laughter echoed as they tripped and sang off-key about what they would do with inebriated seamen.

Tali brought him to where a large congregation of turians, asari, and salarians sat, amazed and a bit aghast at the affair before them. Of course they all had their songs, traditions, and celebrations, but (like most things they did) humans pushed revelry to the extreme. Only quarians and krogan out-did them, and only on certain occasions. For humans, this sort of behavior was what caused the galactic community at large to view them with suspicion and distrust. They were too loud, too bold, too bright and demanding, and even their parties were not polite in their request that you join in.

That sort of behavior was also likely the reason the rest of them were still standing, so Garrus figured they could let it slide for now.

The MRE appeared before him as he sat at the table, sloshing in its plastic container as it slid over. He didn’t have to look up at Tali to know she was smug in having gotten him to do what she said _again_, and with minimal protest. He grumbled into the chunky, tasteless meat of his soup, peals of laughter from the crowd nearby drowning out the words. The table shuddered as someone sat on his other side with a meal of their own.

James’ face was split into a grin as he looked around him. The marine was reserved while he served on the Normandy, and had Garrus not been familiar with human behavior, he would have been offended at how casual that reservation was. Back on his home planet, the man’s energy burst forth with the intensity of a star. It didn’t matter that it was nearly razed to the ground: he was home, and he had survived.

“Surprised to see you out here Scars,” he said after taking a swig from the drink he’d brought with him. “Thought you were super glued to that chair by now.”

“When a quarian threatens you with a shotgun, you do what they say.”

“Bosh’tet,” Tali spat. “I didn’t pull my shotgun on you.”

“Yeah,” Garrus drawled. “_This_ time.”

“_Bosh’tet_,” she swore again.

James chuckled as they went back and forth a few times, before turning to watch the humans who started singing again. He tapped his foot quietly on the ground with the beat, cheering with the crowd at certain intervals to another song that Garrus didn’t know.

Unease settled next to longing in his gut. His own people weren’t artistic by nature, but they had their songs; most were about servitude, sacrifice, and refrains for the spirits, meant to be sung by entire units, subvocals resonating loud enough to make the ground tremble. Oral history was strong in their tradition, regardless where you hailed from, even after the Unification Wars. Garrus wondered what songs would be written in the aftermath of the reaper war; hopefully not all of the _outum_ were gone. The spirit of turians was not so easily defeated, but losing all of those who dedicated their lives to keeping the spirit alive would be a difficult scar to heal.

He wondered if Sol was singing the songs the hierarchy soldiers would sing after a victory, and if she was successful in getting their father to join in.

The MRE was gone too quickly; his stomach wasn’t full, but at least it stopped rumbling. Garrus picked up the empty cannister as he stood—

—before promptly sitting back down due to the full weight of an irate quarian on his arm.

“No,” said the quarian. “You’re staying out here for at least another hour. Liara can keep watch for now; she said she needed a few hours somewhere quiet to work on things anyway.” 

“I won’t disturb—”

“Sit. _Down_,” Tali repeated. Her tone booked no argument. “You’ve holed yourself up in there enough.” The eyes behind the face mask softened ever so slightly. “I know you’re worried; we all are. But she wouldn’t want you isolate yourself, not after everything we’ve been through.” James turned to their conversation, agreement with Tali written into his face.

“Fine,” Garrus huffed and settled down again. “But you owe me a beer.”

James’ grin returned in full. “You got it, Scars,” he said. With a slap to Garrus’ shoulder, the marine got up and made his way across the square.

The rest of the night passed quickly, thanks to alcohol and the enthusiasm from the human crowd seeping into every tired pore of the aliens present. James was more than happy to explain every song to the group around him, and even tried to get them to join in on the ‘sea shanties’ as he called them, much to their chagrin. 

Garrus made his way back to the hospital Shepard was admitted to hours later, wondering if there was anything humans _didn’t_ sing about.

———

The answer was _no_, he decided in the following months.

Humans sang while they worked, and when they wanted to relax. They sang when they were sad, sharing the pain they felt, and other humans understood even if they didn’t know the words. They sang when they were happy, boisterous and free and uncaring if anyone noticed. They sang while they drank, and when sober. They ignored medic’s orders and surrounded the hospital one day, drawn by the singing of patients in quarantine—voices rising in an attempt to communicate with the world outside their walls—and joined them, letting them know that they were not alone.

They sang on the battlefield, he learned, sometimes second-hand. They did not need to sing in unison, like the turian and krogan did. Or use instruments, like the asari preferred to. And sometimes they preferred not to be solitary, like a salarian would. And sometimes still, they’d do a combination of the three.

A man with one arm joked with James that the reapers didn’t bother with his head because the bag-pipes were much more dangerous. He’d played them as part of a unit while they marched forward, uncaring as the world exploded around him, only stopping when the instrument was pulled from his grasp. They laughed about it in the square as others preformed on the squealing instrument, and he promised to let James know when his new arm was attached, so he could play to a better audience on top of the reapers’ graves.

They found a turian unit trapped under rubble, and the commander of the unit spoke to Garrus in quiet tones about the human who’d sung about liberty and ‘french men’ as she’d charged a reaper flank alone, sacrificing herself to buy the unit time to regroup. 

A large group of very drunk humans sang in unison one night, their tempo speeding up with every new line, before letting one man take the lead. His words lingered as he drew them out, allowing his unit join in again as his voice wavered. Their joint voices sped up, almost chanting as they grasped arms and danced in circles, before letting their commander lead again. Over and over they continued, until the entire gathering that evening (aliens included) were caught up in the music. 

The world of humanity was so loud and so very, very _alive_.

———

Garrus sat back against the decrepit wall of an apartment building he volunteered to search that morning. It had turned up more bodies than survivors, just like the day before, and the day before that. The work was tiring, and he was _tired_. Of bland food, of the too cold climate, of struggling to hold onto the truce Shepard had negotiated between the races. 

Tired, and afraid that Shepard would never wake up.

Victus had visited him four days previously while he was taking a break from the search and rescue. He was leaning against the wall of a different apartment complex as the primarch approached him, hands behind his back while he surveyed the destroyed countryside. It had rained that morning and the clouds hung low above them. 

“As much as I’ve appreciated the hospitality,” he’d said. “I’m ready to begin our return to Palaven.” 

Garrus didn’t respond as he continued to study the building opposite from him. Shepard stood in front of a background of red, encircled with gold rings as she looked towards the sky. He wasn’t usually one to critique art, but the fact that they had captured a piece of her spirit was impressive to him. He’d thought about taking up art lessons with a brush instead of a gun.

Victus had hummed at the non-response. “I respect Wrex, and what he’s done to keep the krogan out of our fringe, but there hasn’t been enough time between us and the cure that we will be able to work in close quarters for much longer.” He stopped next to where Garrus sat, turning to stare at the mural as well. “There is a lot of work left to be done to rebuild the Heirarchy, and you will certainly have your pick of any position I will need filled.”

Garrus had slowly stood, tearing his gaze away from the wall. “With all due respect Primarch, there’s a lot of work left to be done to rebuild _everywhere_.”

The primarch had laughed. “True enough.”

Rain began to gently fall as the two of them stood there, causing Garrus to shiver slightly. They entered the remains of the building they stood next to to escape the drizzle, despite the fact that it was missing an entire wall. Shepard’s mural filtered into the room, brightening it, even though it gave off no light of its own, and Victus’ feet had crunched on the dirt as he paced the area slowly. Other buildings were visible through the remaining windows, many of which had their own murals thrown upon remaining sides.

“I still don’t understand it,” he had murmured. 

“Sir?”

“The humans.” Victus stopped and looked at Garrus. “These paintings. They’ve taken up hours of valuable time, and they put them on canvases that will be ultimately ripped down in a few weeks time. What is the point?”

Garrus had stood by the primarch as he wondered at the artwork. “It’s the fact that it was done, sir.” Victus had given him a questioning look. “If it was done once, it can be done again. No matter how many times they are torn down, or how many barriers are in their way, humans will strive to create and grow, and they will use destruction as a well of hope that they can rebuild again. Spirits be damned, they won’t stop until everything is.”

Victus hadn’t responded to that, simply stared at the murals until the rain cleared. They walked back to the turian’s temporary encampment in silence, but not before Garrus had taken a picture of Shepard’s mural.

Garrus looked at the image again, as James handed him his ration. It was his own, personal well of hope—not that he would tell anyone. They sat in silence, watching the crew nearby dance to the music coming out of their omni-tools while they doled out meals.

———

Nearly a year after the end of the reaper war, Garrus heard from his father again. 

“The first Heirarchy ships will leave Earth for Palaven in one week. Which of them will you be on?”

Garrus tried not to let his discomfort with the question show on the vidcall. Just because the service was spotty didn’t mean Castis couldn’t read him like a datapad.

“I, uh, won’t be on them.”

Castis’ face turned down ever so slightly at the news. Garrus could _feel_ the disappointment radiate off of him lightyears away.

“Well, when _will_ you be returning home? Don’t tell me that Spectre of yours has already found another impossible mission for you to get caught up in.”

Garrus shook his head. “No, not exactly.”

His father’s mandibles were going to snap off if he held them any tighter. “Then what is it? It’s time to come home to where you belong. At least for a little while.”

He had laughed with a man from Tanzania about their respective fathers, as he coordinated with Jacob and James to get planet-wide Alliance communications up and running again, and also with Wrex so that the krogan threw their newfound fame into useful ventures, like rebuilding the cities of the galaxy from the ground up, until they could return home as well.

He saw the asari as they struggled to regain footing in a galaxy that didn’t trust them anymore. The dalatrasses of the Salarian Union filtered through leadership faster than he could keep up with, yet the STG units remained steadfast in their support of Shepard’s people and beliefs—at least until the poker cards came out. 

And Miranda had reached out several months ago, while he, Tali, and Steve struggled to learn a Kurdish dance involving eating utensils at the new encampment they set up. He’d pulled a lot of strings to get her into London—and Shepard’s side—as soon as possible.

He looked over to the woman who slept in a hospital bed next to him. He _was_ home, even if it wasn’t the one his father wanted or knew about. The galaxy hadn’t finished with Shepard yet, and he was going to make sure she knew he was still with her every step of the way.

“I’ve only got a few more minutes before my comm time is up, so just let me talk, alright? You can ask me all the questions you want next week.”

———

Garrus opened the window in Shepard’s room as the sun rose. The time of year was normally too cold to be doing such a thing, but he wanted to make sure he'd heard it correctly.

The majority of the buildings across the street were leveled. New foundations were starting to be poured in their place and walls erected once they dried. A few remained in place, however, due to the humans’ inability to just _let things go._

The bricks were faded or scorched into oblivion, and corroded pipes no longer leaked water or sewage, but instead jut out of the ground and walls like dangerous spikes. It was clear these structures were old and had a lot of sentimental value to the people who lived here, but consensus was being reached that it was time to tear them down.

That hadn’t stopped a determined human from climbing as high in the building as she possibly could, carrying an instrument almost as large as she was. The third floor substituted as a roof for her, since its roof proper had all but been ripped off, leaving only two and half walls standing. As the horizon began to lighten, she sat down facing the rising sun with the wooden instrument leaning against her legs and began to play.

The bow slid across the strings in quick, sure movements. Even across a street and two temporary medical camps, the deep melody resonated in him. Light spilled across purple skies, over the streets and buildings both broken and new, before bathing the woman in molten gold as she played. People in the camp below paused as the quick and slow and deep notes filled the air around them, and the streets below where the musician sat came to a standstill, as all who heard it looked to where the music came from. The instrument’s polish flashed in the sun, but the woman didn’t notice as she closed her eyes and fell deeper into the music.

Garrus’ eyes closed as well while he listened. It was as though she’d not only learned turian subharmonics, but also how to make them sing. He’d all but forgotten the upcoming conversation with his father later that day, which was sure to be a stressful one as he didn’t give his father time to ask any questions about his relationship with Shepard before being forced to cut him off.

Just as the first movement reach its crescendo, Garrus heard a shift on the bed behind him. He spun around quickly to see Shepard blink at her surroundings, before she saw him in the room with her. She smiled as sunlight finally reached her window, golden light dancing around her on the bed and on her skin. 

Garrus remembered every moment of the indomitable human spirit he’d witnessed while he was on Earth over the past year all at once, and couldn’t help but smile back.

**Author's Note:**

> _Outum_ is based on ouium, the Latin word for caretaker. They’re historians; a literal take on keeping the spirit of turians alive.
> 
> Inebriated seamen refers to the [_Drunken Sailor_](https://youtu.be/qGyPuey-1Jw) sea shanty. The French song referenced was [_La Marseillaise_](https://youtu.be/4K1q9Ntcr5g), the French national anthem, and the song that had the one commander singing before his unit joined in is [_Kalinka_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m8m2BYv02Nw), a famous Russian folk song. The Kurdish dance mentioned is a [kasik havasi](https://youtu.be/LKi18ptgxE0).
> 
> Finally, the instrument Garrus heard was the cello, playing Bach’s [_Cello Suite No. 1 in G Major_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1prweT95Mo0). I am also hc’ing that the woman is a descendant of Yo-Yo Ma because I predictably like his rendition of the suite, and also because I can.


End file.
